Eating you, your voice rings my heart,
a language turned into light waves
traveling at a pace to crack one’s soul,
and spitting at times, and swallowing,
and brushing my bristled chin, the light
now flamencos mirror to mirror until
it becomes noise again, bending and loud
and rhythm-less, a broken muffler dragging
behind the speeding dark sedan of my gut.
They don’t give Grammys for this kind
of music, but I’m a radio on two legs,
my eyes lit by the maddening metal hertz.
Listening to this strange Mozart
I wonder how long before we invent
the piano he fingered in his mind
as he rolls the sauce and beef and cheese
into a dirty something that wouldn’t
even stain your hands with grief.
Barrett Warner is the author of Why Is It So Hard to Kill You? (Somondoco, 2016) and My Friend Ken Harvey (Publishing Genius, 2014). Recent poems can be found in Pirene’s Fountain and Anti-Heroin Chic.
Taco Bell Quarterly 